Static.
Wind blowing.
Lines passing
and passing
and passing.
Freedom.
He turns on the radio.
David Allen Coe.
The perfect country song.
The new country is shit
he says.
We get him a Taylor Swift
album for his birthday.
He laughs, but I love it.
She's fun, she's happy.
And then it starts.
First with Taylor.
Then the Jonas Brothers,
And One Direction.
And then, it's my turn.
Troye Sivan, R5,
James Arthur.
The radio is no longer
Filled with comfort.
Cardi B, Sia,
Endless DJs,
and names yet to
Be heard from again.
Some, yes,
I come to like eventually,
But most,
Forign noise in a
formally safe atmosphere.
No longer is the wind
messing up my hair.
Now the windows
are barricaded,
Refusing to let the
melody be silenced.
But every so often.
I will go back into that safe place,
Into a different chair,
The windows down,
Music so loud that
I can't even hear him singing,
And I will sing along too,
To the perfect country song.
YOU ARE READING
A Perpetual Existence: A Collected Work of Poems and Verse
PoetryHi, I'm Juliana. What you see here is every poem I've ever written (minus a few drafts that I don't feel comfortable posting). Thus, some of them are gems (see An Arbor to the Moon, The Quiet, or Hamster), and others I fully understand if you read t...
